


A Centrifuge of Adrenaline and Trust

by stardust_made



Series: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall [3]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Slash, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days in London. Observing Steve and Danny around each other is the catalyst that brings Sherlock and John together. A Sherlock/John-centered post-reunion, first time fic, with some romance Sherlock-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Centrifuge of Adrenaline and Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This is John's POV to the events taking place in "To Broaden Our Horizons". Originally I intended to have this piece as the second chapter of that story, but it took off to become an independent story that can very well be read as a stand alone. So I'm posting it as a separate part of my "Mirror, Mirror" series. Unbetaed—apologies for any mistakes. Also, it's the first Sherlock/John slash I've written in eight months. Like I said in my [LJ entry](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/75638.html), it's like learning to walk again! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

When John saw Danny again for the first time in over two years, it felt like he’d seen him only yesterday. And it wasn’t just because no one could easily forget Detective Danny Williams. There was something about the man that made John feel like he was catching distorted glimpses of himself. The differences between him and Danny could have filled two books and then some, yet there was undeniable common ground.  
  
Life choices, for one. Because no matter how different they were, both Danny and John had ended up with an insane partner in crime. Not just that, but while they both bemoaned their lives with said partners, John was pretty sure Danny would just as readily do anything for Steve McGarrett as John would for Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Within seconds of seeing John, Danny was clapping him on the back and grinning brightly in his delight to see him. His blue eyes shone as well, reinforcing John’s instant impression that life had treated at least one of them kindly. Danny looked healthy and tanned and good-spirited; he looked the way people did when they were in a good place.  
  
Happy, that was how Danny looked. John had learned to pick up on that kind of thing swiftly, because for a while it had screamed at him as the perfect contrast to his own sense of being.  
  
John had been glad to get Danny’s call. He didn’t consider him a friend as such, but didn’t place him with the mere acquaintances either. They’d met just once; an unusual once, what with the case being rather disturbing (human trafficking, bringing Steve and Danny over to London all the way from Hawaii) and with Steve doing some crazy stunts which, from what John could remember, had managed to knock out the main case witness unconscious, while capturing him. That was how Danny and John met. Everyone had showed up at 221B: Sherlock, Lestrade, an injured Steve McGarrett and a worried Danny Williams—worried and waving more arms than it was humanly possible for anyone to have.  
  
Expressive gesticulation was Danny’s thing. John had noted it back then and it was in full force now. While talking, Danny had managed to smack his fingers against various surfaces a few times, but didn’t seem to notice. It _was_ a tight fit: the pub was tiny, but it was ancient and had a lot of old charm—John had chosen it to give Danny a sense of something original and British.  
  
Part of being a good host was asking after your visitor’s well-being, which had prompted not just the prolific use of hand gestures but also some great animated faces. Some pretty colourful language, too, or rather, Danny’s whole speech pattern deserved a mention. John had forgotten how specific it was.  
  
“So I tell the guy that I do not wish to debate the merits of having some sort of tracking device put in humans. Why is that? I’ll tell you why, my friend. Because I have some serious concerns I would come around to the idea. It would go against everything I believe in, but I am weak. Okay? I am a weak human being, tested by the universe, and believe me when I say this, the Universe is a harsh mistress—it does not like Danny Williams! Maybe it’s my good looks, maybe it’s my winning personality, but the result is that I have been tried. I have been sent a test going by the name of Steven McGarrett, so I am allowed to cave in, right? Right? Am I not allowed a moment a weakness? So yes, maybe I am worried that I will give up my principles and say that maybe, in some special cases, exceptions can be made and humans can be fitted with tracking devices.”  
  
Yes, Danny had a way with words.  
  
And they painted quite a picture of his life, but the _meaning_ of what Danny was saying was quite the opposite. It conveyed a sense of settlement, of routine; of life evolving around work and family like any ordinary person’s life. Of course Steve was the explosive element that blew up all sense of ordinariness, but John wasn’t sure that Danny even realized that. Oh, Danny knew having Steve around was the opposite of ordinary; he often used both exuberant and very plain turns of phrase to depict Steve McGarrett as the very definition of ‘crazy’. What John wasn’t sure about was whether Danny realized how thoroughly Steve and his brand of crazy had integrated into Danny’s life, to the point where they were an intrinsic part of Danny’s very sense of normalcy. John didn’t press him on that. He didn’t press him on his relationship with Steve in general, despite its importance shimmering like a silver thread in everything Danny said.  
  
It wasn’t in John’s nature to be nosey about people, but not out of self-imposed moral restrictions. He simply wasn’t that interested. ‘Live and let live’—he abided by that not just in theory. But that aside, John was worried that he might be projecting. After all, Sherlock had been back in John’s life only for a few months. John was still living in a world where there were no other elements _but_ Sherlock.  
  
He could see that Danny wanted to ask him about Sherlock, but hesitated whether it was appropriate. It made John feel even more warmth for the man. John knew he was in the presence of a real character—he couldn’t recall anyone else in his acquaintance who managed to be so sensitive and considerate all the while exuding the energy of a loudspeaker.  
  
“How about you, buddy?” Danny asked at length. “Everything back to normal now?”  
  
“It depends.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“What you mean by ‘normal’. Nothing’s ever normal about living with Sherlock, you know,” John said truthfully.  
  
“Yeah.” Danny nodded. “Yeah, I got, I got that the last time. That was my impression. But you’re both good now? I mean, things are back to your kind of normal?”  
  
John pondered that for a bit. “Well, he’s back working and annoying everyone he meets, and I’m blogging about it. Oh,” he added, because he knew Danny would understand, “and someone shot at me twice in two months.”  
  
“Good times!” Danny’s grin was mischievous.  
  
John laughed at the joke, but his heart wasn’t in it. He felt like he had trivialized what had happened to him and Sherlock by putting it across so flippantly. It wasn’t like him to be over-dramatic (no matter what Sherlock said) but it just felt wrong.  
  
Danny cleared his throat. “How are you doing with all this?” he asked carefully, and John knew Danny was asking about the things John hadn’t said.  
  
It wasn’t like he wished Danny hadn’t asked. On the contrary. John liked him, and the fact that Danny was so removed from John’s everyday life actually made John want to share. (His therapist would have been delighted.) Trouble was, John didn’t know what to say. There was so much he hadn’t worked out for himself yet. Sherlock _had_ been gone. John remembered that, remembered all the time he'd spent without him, but now his emotional memory was at odds with reality. Because all the while John had been stranded and anguished, Sherlock had been alive. But how did one put across the complexity of that notion to another bloke who was for all intents and purposes a semi-stranger? How was John supposed to pack into the time two men needed for a drink the myriad of emotional experiences, some conscious, some very much subliminal, that having Sherlock back had brought to him? Just waking up each morning and remembering Sherlock was downstairs, alive, meant the kind of rush that any psychologist worth their diploma would have built an academic career on unpacking.  
  
“God, I don’t even—” John suddenly blurted out, looking up at Danny. “It’s mad, you know? Just—Well, it’s Sherlock. Nothing’s ever simple or, I don’t know—not mad.”  
  
“I hear you, man.” Danny’s face was the height of sympathy.  
  
John felt a door open in him. “I didn’t want to speak to him at first,” he said. “I was so…I don’t know. I think I was pretty overwhelmed actually.”  
  
“Hey, buddy,” Danny said emphatically. “I was all the way over there on the other side of the globe, and just reading about it I was a bit, well, I can’t say ‘overwhelmed’, but let’s just say I was like—” Danny’s eyes widened while his arms started doing all-encompassing circles in the air as means to end the sentence. “So I can’t imagine what this whole rollercoaster must have been like for you.” He paused, face growing serious. “And don’t get me wrong, I do not wish to.”  
  
“No.” John agreed readily.  
  
Danny cast him a few furtive looks, before going on, voice kind. “But he’s back, right? That’s what’s got to matter the most. Right?”  
  
John just smiled.  
  
They left the pub when it was pretty dark and chilly outside. On his way to the tube John thought that Danny had looked pensive when they parted; a mood that was oddly becoming on him, and one John could actually imagine as being not so infrequent. John himself was feeling the way he often did lately—like he was rolling down in a waterfall, minus the fear of what was waiting at the bottom.  
  
When he got home, he found Sherlock playing the violin in the dark. Without a word John sat in his chair and listened to him, eyes trained on his dark silhouette.  
  
***  
  
On the following day John woke up with a very purposeful feeling. Maybe it was being a host or maybe it was the association with Hawaii—or maybe something deeper, like a hidden lock that had finally been clicked open—but all of a sudden John wanted to have a day off with Sherlock. A real day off, the entirety of which they spent together. It wasn’t like they didn’t do it anyway—there were even days they spent only in each other’s company. The difference was all in the intention: to do nothing but enjoy life. To soak up the feeling that they were both alive and well, sharing the same space and time.  
  
Of course Sherlock fought him every step of the way. John asked him to:  
  
\- stop shredding wood everywhere (morning)  
\- not go back to inventing a new classification system for his files (late morning)  
\- join John for a lunch out (noon)  
\- accompany John, Steve and Danny on a boat trip along the river Thames (early afternoon),  
  
and Sherlock did agree to all of the above, but there was nothing silent about it.  
  
“How am I supposed to have a quick access to my data without the new system?” he'd snapped. “You’re the one opposed to the old one.”  
  
“Oh, you mean the one where the files are just lying around everywhere, including where we keep the dirty laundry and in some of my locked drawers?”  
  
“It works for me.”  
  
Lunch was probably the least heavy event in terms of complaints. In fact, Sherlock seemed to enjoy it. He’d even been ready by the door at sharp midday, waiting for John to come downstairs.  
  
He’d lifted his eyes to John from the landing and a few seconds later John discovered that apparently, he was able to levitate, because he had no recollection of taking the steps down. It was happening more and more these days—the sense of wonder at Sherlock’s return being replaced by a sense of wonderment at Sherlock himself. Oh, John knew Sherlock like he knew himself, and he’d always been amazed by him. But now it was like something had upped all the markers. On that particular occasion Sherlock’s uplifted eyes were the most blindingly rich colour, a shade of deep blue-green that John suddenly wanted to have all over his hands, like paint he could smear over his face. At other times Sherlock’s body was so powerfully physical, it was like an artist had taken a thick piece of charcoal and boldly emphasised its contour until wherever Sherlock stood he was all John’s eyes were drawn to.  
  
As for the brilliance of Sherlock’s mind, his dry wit, his unorthodox sense of empathy, his recalcitrant, thrilling courses of action...Again, at times they were so exaggerated that John had the surreal feeling of two Sherlocks being layered over one another: the one from before the fall and the one from after the return. Of course John knew it was his own perceptions that have changed. Or not so much changed, but he had become hypersensitive to the man he lived with and called his best friend.  
  
***  
  
“This is tedious,” Sherlock said again, obviously disappointed that he’d misjudged the volume of his first remark, having it go unnoticed. Steve and Danny heard him this time, but didn’t seem to care.  
  
“See, that’s the trouble with being so memorable,” John told Sherlock quietly, suppressing a smile. Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted further. “People know how you are,” John clarified. “They _remember_ how you are and they just stop paying attention.”  
  
“Not everybody,” Sherlock murmured from behind his coat lapels. His hands were in his pockets and he was occasionally bumping shoulders with John with the motion of the boat.  
  
“Those who continue to be shocked by you after they’d met you are not the kind of people I’d care to spend time with,” John said. Sherlock turned to look at him; his proximity and the whole upping thing were suddenly so palpable that John had to look away. His eyes fell on Steve and Danny. Steve’s face sported a frown, too, but his was more on the side of deadly and suspicious.  
  
“Okay,” Danny was saying. “I cannot enjoy myself while you’re doing that. Can you please stop? Please?”  
  
“What?” Steve replied, defensive. “What am I doing? I’m not doing anything.”  
  
“You are watching these people, these tourists, as if they are all terrorist suspects. None of them looks even remotely dangerous, Steven.”  
  
“Historically, a large number of—”  
  
“No, no!” Danny’s hand shot in the air, making Steve stop talking on cue. “Don’t even start. We are not going to be having a lecture from you on any military subject, all right? You’ll stop scaring people with your stare—”  
  
“I’m not scaring anybody.”  
  
“—and we’ll do some sightseeing like normal people, because we’re in London, okay? This is one of the hearts of the Western civilizations, and—”  
  
“So now what? _You_ can give lectures, is that it, Danny?”  
  
John tuned them out. A sudden gust of wind had filled his lungs with Sherlock’s scent, and it was now spreading through John like a minor, sweet paralytic.  
  
***  
  
Eventually, they managed to enjoy over an hour of partial sun and moods that weren’t sour. Thirty minutes of that time were spent in The Trafalgar Tavern, a nineteenth century pub in Greenwich that boasted a nice front facing the river. John had just gone into a very interesting conversation with Steve on the means of transportation of injured soldiers out of the trickiest zones in Afghanistan, when Sherlock received a text message. His reaction to it announced the end of the temporary peace as well as of all of John’s hopes for a day off.  
  
“Oh, this is brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “John!” He grabbed John by both shoulders, looking at him with such an ecstatic face that John’s head spun as if he was being twirled around. “We must be off,” Sherlock commanded.  
  
“Is it a case?” John asked redundantly, then continued straight on, trying to stomp on the treacherous excitement he felt. “It is a case, isn’t it? Someone died.” Sherlock nodded, eyes ablaze. John’s sigh might have been a touch exaggerated. “Someone died a gruesome death,” he said accusingly.  
  
“Yes!”  
  
John shook his head and looked at Danny. “Someone died a gruesome _and_ mysterious death,” he explained, “that probably promises more of the same is on the way.”  
  
Danny was beginning to grin, but didn’t have a chance to even breathe out a word. “Yes!” Sherlock yelled a confirmation. “Let’s go! We can get a cab and be there in thirty minutes.”  
  
John kept looking at Danny and Steve, hoping his apology was broadcasting loud and clear. Now both men were smiling. “Go,” Steve said.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” John began. (A “Come on, John!” was heard from twenty feet distance.) “I’ll give you a call later and we’ll make plans for tomorrow.”  
  
Suddenly Sherlock was back right next to John, frowning. “Why are you making plans for tomorrow? While I’m flattered by your faith in me, occasionally it does take me more than a few hours to solve a case.”  
  
John stared at Sherlock warningly with his best, ‘You are being a selfish prat, so careful what you say now’ face. “You’ll manage without me for an hour,” he told him.  
  
“No, I won’t! I may need you to—to—to check something for me. Or go somewhere.”  
  
John turned to Danny. “I’ll speak to you later. You said your plane wasn’t leaving until tomorrow evening, right? What?” John turned to Sherlock who had stepped in front of him, a look of hurt and blame over his features. “Pout all you want,” John said, poking a finger at Sherlock’s chest. “I’m not going to let our guests—”  
  
“They’re not our guests,” Sherlock said, indignant.  
  
“I don’t care if they’re technically our guests or not. I’m not going to let them spend a whole day in London tomorrow without meeting with them again, especially since we have to go now. So.” John turned to Danny again. “Talk later. We’ll figure something out for tomorrow, lunch-time maybe?”  
  
Danny and Steve’s expressions were completely the same—they both looked like they were watching a slightly comical scene from a film. “Sure thing,” Danny said. “Go, go!”  
  
At least Sherlock said goodbye to them on parting.  
  
***  
  
“So what’s the case?” John asked as soon as they sat in the cab and Sherlock gave the address: “West India Quays, please.”  
  
Sherlock cast him a slanted look and took a few moments to reply. “You’ll see.”  
  
John didn’t bother to press; he knew how things worked. He had been astonished by the speed with which all his Sherlock-related habits had been restored after Sherlock’s return. Every idiosyncrasy of Sherlock’s had never seemed to have left John’s system. Where there might have been some changes on a deeper level between them, as far as Sherlock’s work and their everyday life were concerned, they picked up from where they’d left off with frightening ease.  
  
They arrived at West India Quays and John followed Sherlock to one bar from the sequence of nice bars situated along the quay, all facing it. The water glistened with the reflections of Canary Wharf and its surrounding buildings—glass and metal made for a beautiful contrast with the old waterways and the few old-fashioned boats moored at the tucked-in quay. The pubs and bars were adding to the charm with their inviting tables and their baskets and boxes of flowers.  
  
Sherlock walked to a table and sat down. John stood by for a moment, looking around, uncertain who was going to show up or what the hell they were even doing there, but under Sherlock’s insistent gaze joined him.  
  
A waiter brought them two menus.  
  
“Are we ordering?” John asked Sherlock when the waiter was out of earshot. “Is this a stakeout? What are we watching?”  
  
“We,” Sherlock said, face hidden entirely behind his menu, “are watching another waterfront in the picturesque Docklands area.” John stared at the back of Sherlock’s menu. A voice floated from behind to add, “While we are having—or rather you are having—an afternoon snack.”  
  
John looked dumbly for another moment, then reached out and lowered the menu. A pair of eyes on the side of too innocent met his.  
  
“Why are we here?” John asked slowly.  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose to join the eyes in the ‘too innocent’ charade. “There’s a reason,” he said.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“Fine.” Sherlock dropped the menu on the table, rolling his eyes but avoiding looking back at John. “I was bored. I didn’t want to go home, but I didn’t want to stay there, either, so...”  
  
“So you faked a text message about a case,” John finished. “Nice. And you got us all believing it was real, because the National Theatre is still lamenting never managing to sign you up.” He shook his head, but couldn’t help his grin. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”  
  
Sherlock blinked at him, endearingly thrown off balance, but then his face grew serious. “I’m sorry I lied to you, but you would have never left if I’d asked you. You are so hell-bent on doing this whole…host thing and spending time with these people.”  
  
“These people,” John said firmly, “are my friends. I may not know them all that well, but I like them. I was actually having fun back there.”  
  
“Yes, I saw. The dullest conversation in existence was taking place. What? Oh, sure, what can be more fascinating than types of vehicles in warzones?”  
  
John was about to respond fittingly when the waiter showed up again. “Can I get you some drinks?”  
  
By the time they finished ordering, Sherlock had told John that he should order the fish plateau, because Sherlock wanted to have the salmon, had smiled his genuine smile at the waiter, and had taken off his coat. The breeze was playing with his curls, and the return to the topic of how he’d employed deceit to get them to enjoy the afternoon alone seemed vastly inappropriate to John.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock’s surprising behaviour continued on the following day when he informed John he was going to Steve and Danny’s hotel with him.  
  
“Why?” John asked, looking up at him from his chair where he was reading the paper.  
  
Sherlock frowned. “I thought you wanted—”  
  
“I wanted us to have a day off yesterday, yes. I don’t expect you to come with me today.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes roamed his face. “Did you—Were you that disappointed with how the day turned out yesterday?” he said evenly.  
  
John stood up from his chair and turned to face him. “That’s not what I said.”  
  
They regarded each other in silence. John could feel his heart speed up with each second that was slowing down. “You—” he began. “You don’t have to come today, is all I’m saying.”  
  
“I know I don’t _have_ to. I still am, if that’s all right with you.”  
  
“Yeah, um...” John cleared his throat. “Yes. That would be nice.”  
  
Once they were in the hotel lobby, they barely had to wait for Steve and Danny for a minute, before both men showed up. They looked relaxed, yet somewhat…clumsy, maybe? John was too distracted to say—as soon as Steve and Danny had come into view Sherlock had stared at them as if they were brand new crime suspects who'd just come to his attention with some bizarre conduct on their part. For a few moments John watched him watch them, until Danny clapped his hands, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "So!" he said. "Where to?”  
  
They went to Knightsbridge, walking around the area and spending half an hour in Hyde Park, until they finally walked to Notting Hill and sat in a pub there. John was grateful to have a rest and a cold beer—the weather was humid and quite warm in comparison to the previous day. The sun had stayed out for over an hour, making John’s head hurt after they’d walked along the lake in the park.  
  
Steve was the only one with sunglasses. Pretty cool ones, too, that made him look even more like a model. John overheard Danny making teasing remarks about them, but nothing in Danny’s face read mockery. John rather thought he saw some admiration there. Or maybe it was just envy?  
  
It was only when they sat in the pub that suspicion began to grow as to the real character of the sentiment written all over Danny whenever he looked at Steve, sunglasses on or off.  
  
John had felt the chemistry between the two men from the moment he’d laid eyes on them over two years ago. Their eye contact was frequent; more than that, it was frequently intense. They looked at each other even when it wasn’t necessary. They played off each other constantly, in tune even in their bickering. It was evident how much they cared for each other from the start, but over the period of time that John hadn’t seen them, what had been a strong bond had obviously transformed into deep friendship and profound reliance on each other’s presence. But back then, when John and Danny first met, Danny had told him that there was nothing romantic going on between him and his partner. So John hadn’t really looked for it. _He_ had been the subject of the wrong assumption about his own relationship with Sherlock more times than he could count. It was intrusive, and privately John found it a bit unsettling, so he didn’t want to subject anyone to the same thing.  
  
But now he watched the way the two men acted around each other and he had to ask himself how he hadn’t seen it before. Steve didn’t just look at Danny; half the time he gazed at him, and it was all there: the adoration, the marvel, the amusement, the fondness. Danny for his part, being the non-navy-SEAL one, and therefore unskilled in keeping himself in check, looked like a schoolboy in love. Naturally, John had already noted what Steve had come to mean to Danny. He had found his conclusion reiterated during the boat trip when Danny’s mind and his whole body language had seemed completely Steve-bound. But this here was new. Now Danny couldn’t help but smile at Steve all the time, even when he was telling Steve something mundane. His eyes did some odd routines, meeting Steve’s, jumping away, then returning as if Steve’s were the polar opposite magnet. John focused his attention on them for a few minutes and now that he was observing, he could see it in plain sight—all the touching, accidental and on purpose, but mostly the restrain not to touch all the time.  
  
Did that—Could it be that…?  
  
Yep. They’d done it.  
  
Or something had to have happened between yesterday afternoon or this morning; something like a conversation about ‘us’, or at least a kiss. John thought about the spring in Steve’s step, about the looseness in Danny’s shoulders—and then he remembered Sherlock! Sherlock had seen it straight away. After all, he always used to know when John had slept with someone. John never flattered himself to think that he was especially worthy of Sherlock’s attention in that respect. And who was it that said Sherlock had always been able to say if someone had had sex the night before? Yes, that slimy banker, Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock’s old college ‘buddy’.  
  
John wondered what Sherlock thought about these new developments between Steve and Danny. Nothing, most likely. It wasn’t the sort of thing he cared about one whit.  
  
Which was also evident by the fact that he was paying zero attention to them now. He wasn’t being rude—despite his genuine lack of interest in social graces, Sherlock’s manners were impeccable until provoked otherwise. (Sadly, provocations lurked behind every corner.) He simply didn’t interact with Steve and Danny beyond the strictly necessary courtesy. He had taken to casting surreptitious glances at John, though, that soon began to make the soles of John’s feet itch. He waited for the next moment when Steve and Danny were absorbed in each other and leaned over to Sherlock. “What’s wrong,” he whispered.  
  
Sherlock started. “Nothing,” he said. John must have looked unconvinced, because Sherlock frowned. “I’m fine, John.”  
  
John had no doubt that Sherlock was fine, because he knew all the hundred and one ways in which Sherlock could not be fine. But he very much doubted that whatever was going on in Sherlock’s head was ‘nothing’. Still, not the time and place.  
  
They walked Steve and Danny back to the hotel and parted on great terms. Even Sherlock behaved nicely, shaking hands and wishing safe flights. Steve gave John a mighty clap on the back, telling him he was looking forward to seeing them both in Hawaii.  
  
Danny pulled John into a quick hug. “You look after yourself and that crazy friend of yours.”  
  
John squeezed his arm. “You too. We’ll keep in touch.”  
  
Danny nodded with conviction. He threw one quick glance at Sherlock, then searched John’s face. “I’m—I’m really happy for you, buddy. I mean, to see the two of you back together. That’s great.”  
  
John fought his grin and lost. His eyes shot to Steve. “Yeah. Erm, cheers,” he said. “Likewise.”  
  
Danny gave him his best policeman’s squint, but John met it with his own best clueless tilt of the head. Danny nodded his goodbye and started walking to the lift with Steve; half-way through, he turned and waved at John. “See you soon in Hawaii, all right?”  
  
***  
  
Sherlock and John got home on foot on Sherlock’s suggestion. John soon realized it wasn’t an offer for taking a walk—his attempts at small talk were met with distracted short replies. When he stopped initiating conversation, the two of them lapsed into silence that lasted to their doorstep. John wasn’t worried; none of this was out of character for Sherlock, so he let him be.  
  
Indoors, he put the kettle on and went to the bathroom. When he came out, he asked Sherlock if he wanted a cup of tea. No reply came from the living room. John peered in to find it empty, then went to knock on Sherlock’s bedroom door. In a few seconds he knocked again, and again, there was no response.  
  
“Sherlock, are you all right?” he called. He wasn’t alarmed. It was typical of Sherlock to lose himself in his own head, to the point where he switched off the outside world for anything between a couple of minutes and a couple of days. But just in case John gave him a warning and opened the door—only to find Sherlock wasn’t there, either.  
  
John sighed and returned to the kitchen. Third occurrence in a row that wasn’t atypical, but that one did jar. It was one of the few things marked by change since Sherlock’s return. It was no longer something that John could just shrug off—he really didn’t like it when Sherlock disappeared without a word. Especially when he took off from their home, while John was right there. But John couldn’t really articulate the reasons for his skittishness, certainly not to Sherlock. And Sherlock was the way he was. He’d made changes for John. There was no doubt about it, because John remembered the man he’d met four years ago. But as much as John treated him like a normal human being, probably more than anyone else had ever done, he was still painfully aware of the fact that he would never manage to affect Sherlock’s extraordinary character all that much. He didn’t want to. It was better to concentrate on readjusting his own expectations.  
  
John sighed and took his cuppa with him to his bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. On the way up he started texting Sherlock awkwardly with one hand. He gingerly pushed his bedroom door open with his shoulder, careful not to spill his tea, walked in, and froze.  
  
Sherlock was sitting on his bed.  
  
The first thing John noticed was his bare feet. Interesting, considering that Sherlock had also taken off both his jacket and his shirt—everything was flung over the near-by chair, leaving Sherlock clad only in his suit trousers. He had been looking at the floor, forearms propped on his thighs, but at John’s entry he had lifted his head, so instead of the top of a dark mop John now saw a pair of unfathomable, tense eyes. They quickly averted to a point somewhere to the left of John’s hip.  
  
John carefully placed his tea on top of the chest of drawers. “What are you doing?” he said. His voice’s demeanour did not bode well for any upcoming discussions.  
  
Sherlock’s gaze returned to him. “What does it look like?”  
  
John shifted from one foot to the other and licked his lips. “It looks like you’re sitting on my bed with your shirt off.”  
  
“That’s an excellent observation, John.” There was no irony in Sherlock’s tone. “What can you deduce from it?”  
  
John licked his lips again. His mind was abuzz with activity, but none of it offered an answer he could speak out loud. He spread his arms a little in a gesture of helplessness, but Sherlock only lowered his head again. John noticed in a daze how the light from the window brought out a fiery tint in Sherlock’s hair along the odd curl. He could see Sherlock’s shoulders moving with the rise and fall of his chest. It betrayed excitement, nervous excitement. Or just plain nervousness? On instinct John took a step forward.  
  
Sherlock’s response was instantaneous. His head snapped up; John could see that a flush had risen to his cheekbones, making them stand out like two perfect small halves of a red apple. It gave Sherlock a feverish look, feverish and—  
  
“I’m no expert,” Sherlock’s rumbling voice gave John a start, “but I believe that when a person goes into another person’s bedroom and presents himself in a state of undress, the message should be quite clear.”  
  
John swallowed. “A person, yes. Not you.”  
  
Sherlock watched him, unblinking, then nodded slowly once.  
  
The implication of John’s words hit him. “I didn’t mean—I meant that you are not just...” John paused. “You don’t do that, Sherlock,” he finished simply, keeping his voice soft. It wasn’t hard. John’s head had suddenly quietened, like it often did in extreme circumstances.  
  
Sherlock’s mouth turned into something like an apologetic pout. “I’m doing it now,” he said.  
  
“I still don’t know what it means.”  
  
Sherlock finally straightened his back. John could see the flush had started from his chest to work its way up. Sherlock’s skin looked blotched with it. John couldn’t take his eyes off of it.  
  
Sherlock spoke again, voice like a distant roll of clouds. “It means that I’m trying—and judging by your response failing—to see if you would like to have sex with me.”  
  
John heard him very well. He comprehended what was happening very well. He had, from the moment he’d walked in, but he had to ask nonetheless. It was not the sort of thing where even the smallest chance of getting it wrong could be taken. Still, all his awareness of the situation didn’t make it any less surreal. But this was Sherlock, so John walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. At John’s initial motion Sherlock had looked at him in some small alarm, but now he just leaned forward again, resuming his previous position.  
  
John tried to think this through. Evidently, it was once again left to him to work out the reasons behind Sherlock Holmes’s strange behaviours. “What brought this on?” he asked quietly at length.  
  
He could see Sherlock’s throat bob, but no words came out at first. Eventually Sherlock bowed his head and spoke.  
  
“Earlier, it didn’t escape your attention that Steve and Danny had become intimately involved as of last night?”  
  
“No. I mean, yes, I thought something was going on.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “They looked fine about it today,” he said.  
  
“They did,” John agreed.  
  
There was a pause. “Happy, would you say?”  
  
John considered. “Yes, I would say that.”  
  
This time the pause stretched. John watched Sherlock, patiently waiting; on their own volition his eyes travelled over the line of Sherlock’s neck down to his shoulder blades. John had seen them many times before, but now they looked so delicate yet masculine, so clearly belonging to Sherlock, that John felt his throat dry up. He didn’t even know if he wanted this. He didn’t know if he ever had. But things weren’t waiting for him to find out. Things were swimming up and breaking surface at dazzling speed, taking shape in that ungoverned by logic way which had the power to transform a pair of shoulder blades into the very epitome of intimacy.  
  
Sherlock looked at him sideways. His overgrown fringe flopped over his forehead and almost hid his right eye. The eyelashes of the uncovered one stood out, pale and tempting.  
  
“I want to be closer to you,” Sherlock said. “I have, since I came—No, from before, but especially since.” He paused and frowned, eyes coming out of focus. “In the weeks before I came back I thought—I thought that when I did come back, I would finally see you again and be around you. I missed you. John...”  
  
John was afraid to breathe out. He was afraid an exhale might stop this, or choke him up.  
  
“But when I came back,” Sherlock continued in a levelled tone, “it didn’t change. It didn’t get better. I still wanted—want to be closer to you.” His eyes resumed focus, the look in them accelerating wildly to the force that always compelled John to follow, uncaring what lied ahead.  
  
“You need to think about what you’re asking, Sherlock,” John said, slow and calm.  
  
Supremacy and irritation fleeted over Sherlock’s features, but his fingers were white as chalk. “Of course I have. You said it yourself—I don’t do this. I wouldn’t do it for anyone. For anyone else. But with you, I want to try…” His eyes lowered abruptly. “Unless of course you don’t wish to. The data I've gathered from observing you isn't conclusive. And I am well aware this isn’t something one can make oneself want. I would have discussed this with you downstairs, but I found that I'd much rather preferred to let my actions speak for themselves. Obviously my inexperience in these matters has misled me.”  
  
John understood Sherlock perfectly. He himself knew all about action. He knew about the pressure thudding and building up until something snapped, until John stopped thinking and just did.  
  
Followed. Followed Sherlock anywhere.  
  
He wove a hand in Sherlock’s hair at the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.  
  
His eyes fell closed. Just as well—John wouldn’t have managed to take all that in. The sights and sounds and scents of Sherlock, the occasional tactile incident, all of those had accumulated in John’s blood like a new element, but adding taste to them would have been too much. His head was already swimming, his ears buzzing. Sherlock’s mouth was soft yet unyielding under his, suddenly transferring all the power onto him, making him doubt. John shifted closer, arm insinuating itself around Sherlock’s torso to pull him nearer. He pressed against Sherlock’s closed lips, desperate to taste more but not wanting to breach them.  
  
Suddenly the body under his hands shifted, came to life. Hands found John’s body, their touch light but unmistakable. Sherlock’s mouth opened; John made a sound into it, the dampness alone driving him forward. Sherlock’s tongue flicked against his, sending a delicious, electrifying shock through him. Air was whistling in and out of John’s nose as he aligned their mouths better and started kissing Sherlock in earnest, wet and sensual, promising him pleasure, all the treasures in the world, promising closer.  
  
Sherlock’s body was switching back and forth between wooden and willowy. He was giving in, then taking over, driving John crazy until John crawled over him and slowly pushed him back, his mouth not leaving his. He spread Sherlock on the bed, lying on top of him. Now that they were flushed against each other John became dizzily aware of how hard he was. His hips rocked once mindlessly, the friction so gratifying that it made John press his forehead against Sherlock’s and shut his eyes. There was no hardness in reciprocity against John’s leg, but he was content to keep kissing Sherlock until dusk. Take what he could, find what he hadn’t even spent a conscious moment seeking. He pulled away to look. Sherlock’s eyes were closed tight, his face drawn in concentration and instant discontent at the separation. His mouth was glistening, already the shade of dark coral, and John stared at it, the full impact of what was happening slamming him down into his body.  
  
He descended back on Sherlock, holding his face between both hands and kissing him randomly, sloppy. He plunged deep into Sherlock’s mouth, moaned, sucked on Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock’s chest pushed against his in response, while his hands buried in John’s hair. John took his mouth to Sherlock’s chin, to his throat and his collarbone, licked and grazed with his teeth, savagely trying to think where Sherlock’s skin would be the palest and the thinnest. He found a tender spot near his left nipple, low under the armpit, and sealed his lips over it, suckling, then did the same over the nipple. Sherlock gasped and arched, his arms locking around John’s body. Through the noise in his ears John heard Sherlock’s breathing, exalted and lost, then felt it in the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he slid down, nosing and kissing, until he got to his belly button.  
  
He lifted his head to look up at Sherlock again—on cue Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he stared back down at John, neck straining to keep his head up. For a few seconds they locked gazes, the exchange between them familiar, a centrifuge of adrenaline and trust. John swore and climbed up, claiming Sherlock’s mouth again. Sherlock opened for him readily, his legs re-arranging around John’s hips until he was safely caught between them. John did a mighty grind, direction and force coded in his DNA. Sherlock’s hips rose to meet his and John groaned when their erections rubbed.  
  
“Clothes,” John mumbled. “Off. Come on.” He straightened up and shuffled, giving Sherlock space to get rid of his trousers, while John tugged at his own jumper. His shirt took longer to remove, but John took it off like a t-shirt after undoing only the top three buttons. The rest followed quickly to the last item.  
  
John looked at Sherlock and saw him there, stark naked on John’s old, blue, stripy sheets that he’d changed last weekend. He gaped at Sherlock like he still did to this very day, and felt a surge of something formidable and wonderful take over him. Sherlock had watched him with frighteningly clear eyes; his lids now drooped and his legs fell open. John slotted between them, and it was all rocking downhill from there.  
  
He felt dampness spread everywhere: the traces of saliva he left along Sherlock’s throat, the ones that Sherlock smeared against John’s lips, the beading sweat over their skin, the pre-come they both leaked between their bodies. Sherlock was bony and supple; nothing like a woman, everything like what he would be, had John ever stopped to think about it. He moved against John, gracious one moment, grating at all the wrong places the next—so perfectly himself that John wanted to flip him over and bury himself into him there and then. Or get on all fours and let Sherlock push into him, straight on, pain welcome. Because pain caused by Sherlock? John knew that _intimately_ ; the greatest, most searing pain that of Sherlock’s absence, so any pain that put Sherlock _in_ him, made him part of John, John was ready to take on the spot, gratefully.  
  
He had to grit his teeth to stop the convulsing of his throat. He snuck a hand down and wrapped it around both of them—it was dry and awkward, but Sherlock made a low, keening sound, so John was glad it wasn’t too good, too quick. Sherlock, however, didn’t care for moderation. A few strokes only and he held John tightly between his thighs, then rolled them both onto their sides. The angle was better and there was more room, but the motion had made John’s hand momentarily stray from its hold. A deep line appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows, but he kept his eyes closed while he searched and found John’s hand between their bodies. He pressed it over their shafts, pelvis pushing forward unconsciously. John found it unbearably erotic. He caught Sherlock’s retreating fingers and placed them where his own were; for a moment they were limp, before joining John’s, playing: teasing a sensitive spot, pressing their crowns together, rubbing around a droplet of moisture.  
  
But soon the teasing became too much on the side of torture. John hissed, pushed Sherlock’s fingers away and wrapped his own hand only around him, the fit tight and luxurious. Sherlock's simple breathless “Ah,” made John's testicles tighten and draw up, made him move his hand like this was the last time he was ever going to bring himself off. Only it was better, _fuck_ if it wasn’t better, because he was bringing Sherlock off, and if John knew anything about anything, this wasn’t going to be the last time he did it, either.  
  
He quickly spat in his hand then took hold of Sherlock again, the friction now sleek and determined. He felt his face going lax as he read the signs all over Sherlock’s body, deciphered the trembling of his eyelids. The tips of Sherlock’s front teeth kept flashing tantalizing hints between his parted lips, so John surged forward and kissed him. He kissed him and jerked him off, speeding and speeding, until Sherlock started trembling. His chest shook and sharp, soundless whimpers filled John’s mouth. He tightened his jaw and kept following Sherlock’s clues while Sherlock strained, spending himself, his lips forming into the first letters of John's name.  
  
The musky smell of sex hit John in whatever unconquered corners there’d remained in his brain. He grabbed hold of himself, Sherlock’s semen providing both the lubricant and the kick necessary to send John to a swift pre-orgasmic state. He panted and tugged, while Sherlock watched him, eyes flicking up and down, his expression oozy and serious. John caught his eye and moaned, swore again, then sped up.  
  
Sherlock’s fingers grazed the underside of John’s knee, scratched lightly, then snuck out and glided up along John’s thigh, excruciatingly slow against the frantic movements of John’s own hand. When he reached John’s hip, Sherlock curled his hand around it, felt him up, before digging his fingers in—and John was coming fast and hard with hitched, silent pants, eyes desperately trying to stay open and not let go.  
  
***  
  
Three months later Sherlock caught John looking at flights to Hawaii. There was only a token huff in response, but Sherlock’s hand lingered where he had placed it on John’s shoulder to lean on and look over at the screen. John silently made the mouse cursor hover over a particular flight. He watched the tiny electronic letters and numbers glow, and he thought he felt the lightest squeeze—it was his injured shoulder—before the hand ghosted down his arm.  
  
End


End file.
